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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993741">Summer Storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianmay_be/pseuds/brianmay_be'>brianmay_be</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Band of Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Fluff, gene has ptsd, he's just a sad soft cajun boy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:41:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>916</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993741</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianmay_be/pseuds/brianmay_be</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, Gene, I’m so sorry,” you said. “I should have noticed, I should have thought of it - “</p><p>“Aw, hell, honey,” he said consolingly. “That’s ok. I don’t want you thinkin’ about war when you listen to a thunderstorm. I’ll be ok.”</p><p>OR</p><p>For you, the summer storms in Bayou Chene are one of the most wonderful things about making your home in Louisiana with Gene. For him, they’re a little too close to the sounds of battle. While the storm rages, you help him forget those times when he was always there for everyone else by being there for him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eugene Roe/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Summer Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Who’re you waitin’ for?”</p><p>You looked over your shoulder at Gene, feeling that same warmth you did every time he looked at you with that soft smile. He dried his hands on the kitchen towel and put it over his shoulder, just having finished the last of the dishes, and waited for you answer.</p><p>“I’m not waiting for anybody,” you said.</p><p>“Could’a fooled me, looking out that window all night long. You can’t hardly see anything in this dark, ‘specially not with a squall like this one.”</p><p>You smiled. “That’s what I was watching,” you said. “I’m watching and listening to the storm. Does it always rain like this here?”</p><p>He cast a glance through the lace-covered windows in your living room, not getting any closer. “Sure does. It’s a good thing you like the rain.”</p><p>“Don’t you?” you asked.</p><p>He shrugged. He turned and went back into the kitchen to put the dish towel over the oven handle, fiddling with the frayed ends.</p><p>You got up from the couch and walked over to him. “Gene.”</p><p>He looked up at you. “Yes ma’am.”</p><p>You couldn’t help a small laugh at the sweetness of his drawl, always respectful and a little bit teasing. He smiled at the sound of of your laugh and straightened when you put a hand on his arm, steadied by your touch.</p><p>“I’m glad you like the rain,” he said. “You’ll never be wantin’ for it here.”</p><p>Thunder rumbled close by, and you felt him flinch at the sound of it. Suddenly, it made sense - he didn’t like the storm. While it was comforting and peaceful to you, it was loud and frightening to him, perhaps too close to the sounds of battle. You paled and felt worse than you’d ever felt that you hadn’t figured it out before now.</p><p>“You don’t like the sound,” you guessed.</p><p>He gave you a smile that was part grimace. “Not really,” he admitted. “I used to love it as a kid. Now it just sounds like - ” he flinched again as the thunder rolled closer, “- goddamn sixty mortars.”</p><p>You ran your hand up and down his arm, hoping to soothe, worried to do anything else lest you upset him more. Sometimes Gene liked to be held when he was upset; other times, he was better left alone. You didn’t know what he needed and would have cleared up the storm yourself if you’d been able to.</p><p>“I really am glad you like it, though,” he said, a little paler than usual, but his soft voice just as sincere. “One of us should appreciate mother nature.”</p><p>“Oh, Gene, I’m so sorry,” you said. “I should have noticed, I should have thought of it - “</p><p>“Aw, hell, honey,” he said consolingly. “That’s ok. I don’t want you thinkin’ about war when you listen to a thunderstorm. I’ll be ok.”</p><p>You looked up at his face, those features so dear to you, those kind eyes and that nose that always seemed a little pink. You saw the fear he was trying to tamp down and the love he had for you anyway, despite memories of the war surfacing with every flash of lightning.</p><p>“I love you,” you said. “War and all.”</p><p>He gave you a sad smile. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah,” you assured him gently. You stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and he kissed you back softly. He wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck as the next peal of thunder sounded, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest.</p><p>He thought of D-Day, with the flashes of shells far below in the darkness; he thought of Bastogne, when the flares had lit up the night in an eerie whiteness and machine gun fire cracked through the forest like a whip. For a moment, he couldn’t fathom how he’d survived, how he’d really been able to make it out alive to be standing here in his kitchen, holding you close as the rain drummed on the roof of your home in Bayou Chene.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath warm against your skin.</p><p>You ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you ever apologize, Eugene Roe,” you said, gentle but firm. “You don’t ever have to apologize for that.”</p><p>He pulled back to look at you, to see all that love he could never deserve but was going to spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of. With you in his arms and the love in your voice enough to ease his fear, he could almost remember what the storm would have sounded like before the war; thunder that cracked and coiled after lightning, rain persistent and steady on the roof, deep and dark and comforting in its predictability. He hoped he’d be able to listen to it like that again, and forget the way it made his bones ache with fear and his shoulders tense with worry, unlearn the instinct to listen for the call of “medic!” after every roll of thunder.</p><p>For now, at least, you were there - you were in his arms, and you were safe and warm and steady in the face of his fear, friends with the sounds of the storm that seemed only beautiful to you. For now, that was enough.</p><p>“Thank you for lovin’ the storm,” he said. “And thank you for lovin’ me.”</p><p>You just kissed him them and held him close, and for a moment he almost didn’t fear the storm at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>come see me on my hbo war tumblr, @eugenebondurant :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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